Last Edit August 16, 1995, July 1998
This little, tired, old mother is going to escape the bonds of parenthood, and shall never allow them to dissuade her from doing her own thing again.Eight days! I am going to the Booklover's Convention in Nashville. I am going to study writing. And selling. And, just maybe, find an agent who likes my work. I am renting a notebook computer. And a printer. And I will work on my book. At least on one of them. I will also see the Hunk pageant again. And, of course, Fabio is supposed to be there. He'd better be! I need him for inspiration. I want another hug. And my sons, those erstwhile creatures I have spawned in moments of madness, have set about their campaign. They don't like this idea of my escape. They prefer me in reach. They have known about the trip for weeks. They have campaigned against it for at least that long. My older one, the eighteen year old, is about to graduate from high school and has his driver's license. And his membership in the automobile club. And he has already called them twice. Once was not entirely his fault. But the second time..... One should always turn off the car lights on foggy mornings. And he has tried, unsuccessfully so far, to wreck the car at least four times. The last time he laid rubber in a forty foot skid. He was only chagrined for a few hours. I think I am in trouble. I need him to drive the 7th grade car pool. I need him here for his brother. I keep reminding him that the truck, my truck, is not the back-up vehicle. So he'd better not wreck the other two! He just smiles. I don't like that smile. The younger one, my 12 year old, is more subtle. He calls and sings to me over the phone, "I just called to say I love you." He is giving me neck rubs and back rubs and hugs and kisses. Unsolicited. He is making me feel guilty. Very guilty. I have been hiding in my room and sewing. I want new clothes. I want to look like a woman who writes romance. I am still deciding what I will do with eight days of freedom. And what I should leave them to cook. It occurred to me that I had an answer to one of those questions. A perfect answer. I cooked a 23 pound turkey and froze it in meal-sized packets. There is stuffing to match, also frozen. And I boiled a whole lot of potatoes and put them in a pot. I showed them where it was in the refrigerator. I went over how to heat this up at least three times. They assured me that they knew where it all was. They assured me they would do just fine. I explain that there is other food too. There is pizza, sauce, pre-made shells, pepperoni and cheese. And hamburger. And macaroni and cheese. And don't forget Rice A Roni. And the old standby of desperation, hot-dogs. Although, the last time they made macaroni and cheese it solidified. The noodles should really be tender before adding the cheese. I guess they were in a hurry. Or maybe they really wanted to patch the pavement. And they last time they cooked pizza, they made a Frisbee. The dogs wouldn't even touch it.  They set fire to the stove the last time they cooked hamburger. And they absolutely refuse to eat oatmeal. They continually remind me about these things. And make omelets that leave debris all over the kitchen. And look at me with mournful eyes. I must remember to hide my Fabio calendars before I leave. I am glad the Fabio doll isn't out yet. They would have hung it in effigy. They tend to blame him for these changes in their mother. For her need to escape. Silly kids. They aren't watching my reaction to the debris. My parting shot was to bake toll house cookies. A big batch. Their favorite. This is to remind them that they have a mother. And she has often baked cookies. And that they should remember this fondly. I forgot to wash the cookie sheet. Oh well. At the last minute, I chickened out. I used a shuttle service to get away. I didn't want to think about my son driving in airport traffic. What if he was late? What if he missed the car pool? What if he left the lights on? I was polite to everyone at the airport. I made sure that my luggage was tagged and moved by big men. I tipped well. I sat quietly reading my new Fabio novel, Rogue, on the plane. I tried not to get too excited. I ignored that pang of guilt because you did not call them back to see if they were up. I would have missed the plane.  I made it to Nashville in one piece. I found a porter. I found the car rental. Unfortunately, I lost the porter before I found out that "around the corner" is a long city block. It took three trips to get my luggage into the small car. I am now sweating. The south is muggy. I remember. I used to live here. Well, in South Carolina and Georgia. And Key West. When I was little. Some things stay with you. And then I wondered what I was thinking of to rent a car and drive to the hotel on "I40West". I have never seen a road split down the middle like that before. I have never thought a road could be built that way. And it split in the middle three times! At 65 mph! I was, fortunately, fighting with a traveling road map on the front seat of the red Nissan so I just happened to be, miracle of miracles, in the right lane. You tend to end up in the right lane when you are reaching across the seat. As the road repeated this trick I wondered if they were drinking White Lightening when they designed this piece of highway. I did not dare look at the scenery. I found the hotel. Amazing. Right where they had told me it was. I had been assured when I made reservations that it "wasn't a Motel 6". No. A Motel 6 is more convenient. It took 45 minutes to check in and "Gee. The room isn't ready. How about a smaller one at the same rate?" And to get the valet to back up my car. And get my luggage into the smaller room. They had to drag my luggage onto a cart. With a computer and a printer neatly embedded in my suitcase (portable? Ha!) it took two men and a boy to lift it. As I said, I am not used to needing help or to tipping. I made an exception. These guys had to earn it because I decided to be utterly helpless. I came in a day early, full of ambition. I wanted to write 5-10 thousand words a day while I was here. Somehow, I had also not yet slept. I unpacked. I drank coffee. You know, water-tap hot. I set up my computer. Yeah! It works. The main hotel with the convention is three blocks up the street. After a 20 minute nap, I am restless. It is too early to call the kids. I know no one. I decide to explore. I am never comfortable unless I know where I am. It's at least 90% humidity with a high wind. Lovely. It takes an hour and four desk clerks to determine that nothing is happening until tomorrow. I tell them where and when things will happen tomorrow. This is nice of me so they tell me Fabio might be here by Thursday. Lesson one in how to cause me to lose track of my ambitions. This information is unnerving. Almost as bad as the first pages of his new book. ("Chiseled jaw, large hands, superb chest", you know the rest. Your imagination takes it from there with little effort. Especially if you own a calendar.) I hadn't made it past page 60. (Does he do this to us on purpose? Oh yes, he does!) Everything looks OK. I learn the name of the rooms. I gawk at the tall elevators. How many stories up? I figure when I need to wake up and how long it will take to walk up. I have signed up for all the meals. It avoids my having to think about it. I promise myself that I will eat properly. I even locate the rest rooms. This is important. Unfortunately for me, I also learn that I am leaving one hotel at 8 AM and not getting into the other one until after 3 PM on Friday, the same day as the Fabio fan club meeting (rescheduled) and the Hunk pageant. Why me? Why all at once on this day? Because I messed up my early reservations. And decided to go to the writing seminar at the last minute. And because he changed his schedule. And just because. Penance must be performed. I am a runaway. I swear to myself that I will not miss either function. And I will be freshly made up and in my purple silk suit with the lace I made special when I see Fabio. I will simply have to find someone to provide me with shelter while I am homeless. I am also glad that I have that car. After the trip in, I don't intend to drive it very much. At least it will be useful for something. I will dress in it if I have to. Oh well. I have three whole days to worry and fuss about all of this. I should be a mess by the time I get to see Fabio. I hurry back to my hotel, my diet dinner, tepid coffee and Amelia, my ghostly heroine. I hope it will work out. I now have time to think about my book, snack on high-protein goo and call home. When I do, I find that my sons cannot find the turkey I stayed up all night cooking for them. And they are making pizza. The pizza I bought at the last minute for emergency back-up. And they're using spaghetti sauce. They can't find the pizza sauce either. This does not bode well for the rest of the week. My older one asks why I was worried about the car pool. He says the 7th graders are quiet and well behaved. I need to remember that he's bigger than I am. They don't ask about my flight. Or my daredevil drive from the airport. They are in a hurry to return to their computers and TV shows. And they won't discuss Fabio. Or the other hunks. Or any of the adventures I am about to have. They don't miss me. They are just fine. I hang up and return to my tepid coffee. I have seven days to go. Amelia will die tonight. I am in the mood to kill. |
I'll sit on his knee anytime!
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